Blood of My Blood
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "...but he's afraid if he takes his eyes off of Sherlock for one moment, he'll come crashing to the ground." Another angsty Holmes' brothers story, focusing on the Fall. What if it had been Mycroft, instead of John, outside of Barts that day? No happy ever after, spoilers, some gore, character death (for real). Un-betaed. Read, review, and enjoy!


**AN: **Sad, again, because I can't write anything happy as of late. I'll work on that, guys, I promise. Until then, enjoy some more Holmes' brother's angst. What if it hadn't been John on the phone when Sherlock fell? Bonus: Mystrade at the end (if you squint) or just really friendly Lestrade (which would be kind of OOC, I suppose).

Edit/Update to add that A LOT of this dialogue comes directly from Series 2, Episode 3 - reimagined for Mycroft on the other end of the line, rather than John! Not mine, and I did not mean to appear to claim it as such. Enjoy!

* * *

Mycroft's car speeds round the corner and barely has time to decelerate before Mycroft is opening the door and putting his Oxford's to the pavement. He has his phone to his ear with his right hand as he scans the walk in front of Saint Bart's hospital. He doesn't see Sherlock anywhere, but he can hear his brother's soft, shaking breath through the phone.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came." Sherlock says suddenly.

"No, I'm coming in." Mycroft says, already ruffling through his pockets for his identification to show the nurses on duty.

"Just…" Mycroft stop in his tracks. "Do as I ask. Please." He turns, walks back towards the car.

"Where?" He asks, and he hears Sherlock's breathe hitch.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock, what…"

"Okay, look up…" There's a pause. Mycroft's eyes search towards the sky. "I'm on the rooftop." His brother's voice cracks. Mycroft is suddenly so very unsure of what is going on. His heart drops into his stomach.

"Oh God." He breathes, but he doesn't dare do more than that. Sherlock is standing on the precipe of the rooftop, phone to his ear and arm outstretched. His wool coat flutters in the wind. He rocks. Mycroft's throat is tight.

"I…" Sherlock voice is fuzzy in the phone and Mycroft can't tear his eyes off of his brother's silhouette. "I…" His voice cracks. He's crying, Mycroft realizes, not just tears but stinted sobs. The kind that come up within you completely unbidden. Sherlock hasn't cried like that since they were children. Despite the desperate hold Mycroft is trying to keep on his emotions he feels his eyes burn; he blinks away tears. "I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock says finally.

"What's going on?" Mycroft is trying to keep the authority in his voice. He wants to look behind him, to see if anyone else has noticed the man standing on the rooftop or his brother standing broken in the street, but he's afraid if he takes his eyes off of Sherlock for one moment he'll come crashing to the ground.

"An apology." Sherlock shakes his head. He clenches and unclenches his fist. "It's all true."

"What's going on?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

Mycroft is agape. He knows this is a lie, he knows, and yet Sherlock is there standing on the edge of the hospital and looking to all the world he's about to throw himself off and… Oh. "Why are you saying this?" Mycroft already knows why, but he has to hear Sherlock say it.

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock." Mycroft tenses, fits the gut reaction he has to run into the building. Sherlock asked him to stay put, he said please…. He's crying even. Mycroft is absolutely certain these are all small miracles he hasn't seen since childhood. He tries to find something else to say, but he can't, and Sherlock is speaking again.

"The newspapers were right all along." He breathes deeply. "I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and," His voice breaks again, "John. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. You've got your ways, Mycroft. I know you do. Make sure my story is heard. Tell them that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

They both know it's a lie. Behind Sherlock, Moriarty lies bloodied and missing the back of his skull, definitely dead but definitely once very real. Mycroft had seen the man tortured, had given him intimate details about Sherlock's life because, for some reason, he was interested and… "Okay. Stop talking, Sherlock. We're going to find a way out of this." The pieces are falling into place. Sherlock, his brother, is in danger. They must all be in terrible, terrible danger.

"Nobody can be that clever." The younger Holmes says brokenly.

"Brother. I'm so sorry…"

"No. Mycroft, no. Moriarty doesn't exist." He sighs heavily. "It's not your fault. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

Mycroft has had enough with standing on the street. "Sherlock, stop this nonsense. I'm coming to get you." He begins to move towards the hospital entrance, but Sherlock is watching him.

"No!" Sherlock nearly screams through the phone, stretching his arm out as if he could grasp hold of Mycroft's expensive wool jacket and tug him back across the street. "Stay exactly where you are!"

There has to be a reason, there has to be a reason for all of this. Mycroft repeats the mantra in his head, trying to ignore the fact that his hands are shaking. He feels lightheaded. "Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." There is no hiding the tears rolling down his face now, Sherlock cries loudly. "Please, brother, will you do this for me?"

"Yes." Mycroft shakes his head 'no', but he says "Yes" because Sherlock is his brother, and he has always been helpless to resist him.

"This phone call… it's," Sherlock finds it hard to speak. He knows what's waiting for him at the end of this sentence. He knows this is the last time he will see Mycroft. He knows that his death, this fall, will be the only way to save those he cares about the most. He is a genius, but even he cannot stop death. He just never figured death would come so soon. "It's my note."

On the ground, Mycroft feels his shoulders sag. "That's what people do, don't they?" Sherlock continues. "Leave a note." The detective runs a hand through his hair.

"Sherlock, please…" It's the closes the oldest Holmes has come to begging. There is a long stretch of silence on the phone. Sherlock turns to look at something behind him, the gazes out across London. Somewhere three snipers sit, guns trained on the only people Moriarty believed mattered to him. Luckily for Sherlock, the criminal had forgotten the one who mattered most.

"I can't." He says finally, trying to memorize Mycroft's every feature, trying to remember the sound of his brother's laugh. When he has had enough, when he fears he may be running short on time, he takes a deep breath. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

He drops the phone as he stretches his arms like the crucifixion, a less-than-perfect sacrifice to the ground below. The wind is cool on his face, his coat blows back and makes a perfect shadow against the sky. He counts. Three long seconds, an eternity, and then he falls forward off of the roof.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft screams, racing forward as he watches his brother kick and fly, no, fall through the air towards the pavement. "No." He screams again. His brother's body hits the ground in a sickening crunch of bone and blood and, oh so breakable body. To his side there are cars screeching but he doesn't care. He narrowly avoids a messenger bicycle and almost trips over the curb in his quest to reach Sherlock.

When he does there is blood, so much blood. Pouring from a crack in his skull, from his nostrils, from the corner of his mouth. His legs are at inhuman angles and his arm is like rubber. "No…" Mycroft says again, it's the only word in his vocabulary. "Sherlock!" He kneels, grabs Sherlock's body, shakes him roughly on the shoulders. His grey eyes are already glassy and lifeless, his head lolls. More blood. Mycroft is sobbing now, openly and heavily. He pulls Sherlock's broken body into his own, cradling him like a child. His hand threads through Sherlock's slowly soaking hair and he can feel bits of skull give way beneath his fingers. He fights the urge to vomit.

"Sherlock, my Sherlock…" He repeats over and over, punctuated with cries of "What have I done?" He keens loudly, sobbing into Sherlock's coat, his hands becoming slick with blood.

The sound of the body hitting the pavement has attracted a few onlookers and he recognizes that there are medical professionals five steps away. It wouldn't matter. Sherlock is dead, his brother is dead. He knows there had to have been some reason but he can't figure it out right now. He can't think but for the image of Sherlock, Christ-like, arms spread against the sky.

Someone is pulling on his shoulder. He grips Sherlock tighter. "No." He growls to them, but they are insistent. Slowly they pry his fingers off of the body, extricating him from his brother's presence and setting him neatly aside. A woman is talking to him. He cannot hear her. He does not want to hear her. He vomits in the gutter, heaves until his stomach won't give anymore.

He sits back on his heels. The woman is still sitting beside him. His eyes are hollow, there's blood on him, and vomit on his tie.

None of it matters, he thinks. Sherlock is dead. Sherlock has killed himself… Sherlock…

There has to be a reason.

"The roof." He says finally. The crowd is disappearing. "Look on the roof. Call for Detective Inspector Lestrade and have him meet me on the roof."

The woman tuts softly. "Sir, I think it's best if we get you looked over. You're most likely in shock…"

Mycroft turns his head sharply and glares at her. He growls and then stands. He looks at the blood on the sidewalk, a great puddle of it, all of it Sherlock's. He feels his knees threaten to falter, but he refuses to falter again. He wipes his eyes, wipes the vomit from his mouth. He straightens his jacket. "Call for the detective inspector. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. No one else, do you understand?" He blinks and can still see his brother's body, can hear his voice. He finds he doesn't want to forget these things.

"Sir, where are you going?" Attendants are trying to stop him but he shoves them aside with a wave of his hand and a glimpse at his identification. He makes it to the elevator and hits the button to the roof.

Overlooking sprawling London, Mycroft stands on the top of Bart's hospital. Moriarty lies dead and cold at his feet. His brother lies in the morgue below.

He stretches his arms out in perfect imitation of Sherlock not an hour prior.

Bloodied, dirty, a stark image against the setting sun.

Sherlock had to have had a reason… He contemplates taking the next step, feeling the wind against his face as Sherlock surely had, but he doesn't know why he would do it.

A hand reaches out and grasps his jacket, pulls him back from the ledge.

"Don't even think about it." Lestrade growls roughly, pulling Mycroft into his chest.

"Sherlock is dead." His voice is empty, he's not crying, but he's shaking.

"I know." Lestrade says.

"I wanted to know why."

"Yes."

"Moriarty…"

"Yes."

"There are more in his web, Gregory."

"We'll find them." Lestrade says softly.

"They have to pay for what they've done."

"They will."

It's not a question, it's a promise.


End file.
